I Want to Write You Some Sort of Love Letter

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In this unbidden time, this time,
not for condescension but its willing swerve,
when the leaves are agog at their own lack of color
I want to write you some sort of love letter:
a piece of snow, lichen,
the dirt under my fingernails,
coils of bear droppings, frozen,
by the buckshot sign. I want to show you
how water seems clearer when it is this cold,
pooled, shallow, over leaves and their companions.
I want to give you the crows,
the mist hanging over the mountains,
everything wet, wet, gray and dun,
the grass so gold against it,
and my own broken heart
that wants to pause here
among the black and dripping branches
but stays with me, up the gravel road,
beyond the barbed-wire banded trees,
past the swollen stream
and on home.

Frostwriting ISSN 2000–0189
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